


The Beryl Chess Set

by mintwitch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Best Friends, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintwitch/pseuds/mintwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case fic based on the ACD story of The Beryl Coronet. Briefly referenced in "The Scientific Method." </p><p>Sherlock demonstrates a deeper grasp of human relationships and their myriad complications than he usually gets credit for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beryl Chess Set

  
  


"Why'd she break up with me, do you think?" I was between locum shifts at the moment, and had little better to do than arse about the flat, feeling bored and sorry for myself. I must've been desperate, to turn to Sherlock for relationship advice.

"Perhaps because you went on a romantic holiday and spent the entire time with an old army mate?" Surprised to get an answer, I looked toward my bemused flatmate. Sherlock smirked at me.

"It wasn't a romantic holiday! It was therapeutic; my therapist recommended a change of scenery. Sarah understood that," I protested. It's not like we'd gone to Monaco, not that I could afford Monaco, or Paris, even, although frankly I despise Paris. It's full of French people and the type of Americans who like to look at French people, as if visiting a zoo or out on safari, tour guides whispering: 'See wild French people in their native habitat, brandishing their seasonal plumage. In the evenings, they gather in flocks at the local watering hole!' 

"I'm sure Sarah understood perfectly. Thus, she broke up with you," Sherlock replied, as if the connection were obvious.

"That makes no sense."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tsk'ed at me. "John, think about it. You went away with the one person who might reasonably consider herself your 'significant other,' and you spent it playing rugby and kayaking with Bill--not having intimate talks and going to the symphony with dear, devoted Sarah." He was practically sneering, dripping with sarcasm as he pronounced Sarah's fate.

Oh. Hm. "I hadn't thought about it quite that way, actually." I didn't bother to wonder how he knew what I'd been doing. Either he'd deduced it from what little I'd told him about the trip (nice weather, lovely people, good beer), or Mycroft had produced regular reports. Possibly both.

"Of course not. And therein lies the problem. If problem it is. Which I doubt." Sherlock returned his gaze to his laptop. I returned mine to the ceiling.

It's true that Sarah wasn't The One. I don't think I was hers, either. We were certainly fond of each other, but we were more like friends than lovers. Had never been lovers, really, past a few lazy snogs. I was grieving for what-might-have-been, rather than for what was. And, if I were honest with myself, anything more had been unlikely, even if we hadn't gone to Christchurch, but the trip had certainly not moved our relationship to the next level, as they say.

I don't know how long I lay brooding on the sofa, staring at the ceiling without seeing the cracks and peeling paint, before Sherlock abruptly lost it.

"For God's sake, get out!" he exclaimed, throwing himself back from the desk. He stalked over to the coat-rack, took down my jacket, and dropped it on my head. "Your insipidity is sucking all of the intelligence out of the building. I can practically feel my brain cells dying each time you sigh. And you're taking up the sofa."

"It's my flat, too!" I protested, sitting up.

"Only until I throttle you and bury you in the garden, which fate is increasingly likely the longer you continue to waste valuable oxygen in my vicinity." He stared down at me, voice even, but face twisted with irritation. "Go, pull some slapper at the pub, and don't come back until I no longer loathe the sight of you."

"And how am I supposed to deduce that?" I retorted, even as I stood and shrugged on my jacket.

"I would never depend upon you to deduce me, John. I don't expect miracles. I'll let you know."

"You are such a prat, Sherlock," I said, but let him herd me into my shoes and out the door. He slammed it in my face, and I heard the bolt turn. 

Unsurprisingly, he'd put my phone and wallet in my pocket, but not my keys. Prat.

I hate to admit it, but the walk did me a world. London was beautiful in the Spring. Still a city, nothing like Christchurch, which was beautiful in its own way, though it had been Autumn in New Zealand. But Christchurch was hardly to the same scale as London, and it didn't soothe my soul as The Big Smoke did. There wasn't the same air of age and permanence, and Christchurch didn't have the alleys and secrets of London.

Knowing Sherlock, racing after him across rooftops and through gardens, I had also come to know and appreciate more of London's mystery than I'd ever believed existed. And I'm sure that was still less than a tiny fraction of what Sherlock knew. London was his skeleton, his pulse, his mistress. Sherlock might be married to his work, but he was in love with his city.

The pub I ended up at was one that Sherlock had, in fact, introduced me to. It was a bit out of my usual area, being on the other side of the Park, but the prices weren't too terrible. It was a surprisingly innocuous place, for the locale, just the sort of pub Sherlock would frequent, if one could imagine Sherlock lounging about in pubs, having a pint or two with the boys. Or, more accurately, watching the boys for clues to human nature. The food, if I recalled correctly, was excellent.

My recall, in this case, was excellent. Money no longer being quite the issue it had been, I splurged on the pie, several pints, and more than two excellent Irish whiskeys. I'd picked up a novel on my perambulations, and the lamps over the bar provided enough light to read by, while I enjoyed my meal. The liquor added a comfortable sense of warm indulgence to the afternoon, as if I were skiving off work, or doing something else moderately illicit.

There was no chance that I would try to pull, slapper or no. It had been over a decade since I'd thought that picking up women in pubs was a good idea. Not that I'd never tried it on, in the interim, but the results were predictably disappointing. Perhaps this was what it meant to get old; a man lost the desire to have sloppy, drunken sex with strangers, in favor of no sex at all with good friends. Strange how that description encompassed both Sarah and Sherlock.

My mobile vibrated a couple of times while I was eating, but I ignored it in favor of keeping my other hand and my eyes on my book. It had won the Galaxy Award last year, and I'd debated reading it, both attracted and repulsed by the hype, but seeing it on a book cart, it had seemed just the thing for my mood.

Victorian mysteries weren't usually my cuppa, but so far this one was living up to its press. I was enthralled, and not particularly eager to return to the flat. I wasn't angry with Sherlock—I well knew that he was as intolerant of his own moods, as he was of others'--but I was feeling relaxed and calm, and in no particular hurry.

The sun was sinking, casting the street outside into shadow, and I was sipping what I had determined to be my last whiskey, when I finally checked my texts. As anticipated, they weren't urgent, merely Sherlock declaring that I was free to return, followed by a demand to 'come home' and 'bring Dosas.' I pretended to debate with myself, but I knew, as I'm sure Sherlock did, that I would pick up Dosas on the way back to the flat.

*

"Sherlock," I called idly, looking out the window of Baker Street. "Come take a look at this nutter on the kerb."

I regretted the words, instantly, the trained conscience of a doctor kicking in. Perhaps she was mentally ill, or injured. "Do you think I should go down? Perhaps she needs help."

My friend uncoiled himself from his chair and rose to stand behind me. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown, gazing over my head at the view below.

It was a lovely morning, another soft day in central London. I had thought of taking another walk, but was soothing my restlessness with a bout of Spring cleaning, instead. The window panes were spotless on the inside, but it was impossible to clean more than two-thirds of the outside.

The woman was middle-aged and well-dressed, from what I could see of her, but she was waving her arms rather wildly and yelling at the traffic. She might have been looking for something, from the rapid jerking of her head and shoulders, but her movements were particularly disjointed, as if highly agitated. I peered up the road, looking for the cause of her distress, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Except, of course, the woman herself.

"I do believe she's one of mine," Sherlock drawled, and flopped back down into his chair, long limbs draped in such a way as to make him resemble a spider lurking in its web.

"One of your whats?" I asked, and immediately wanted to bite my tongue.

Sherlock gave my question the attention it deserved—none at all—and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. His eyes drifted closed, as he settled into quiet meditation, with no apparent thought to his appearance.

"Sherlock," I said, and looked pointedly at his attire. "You might want to get dressed?"

"Why would I do that?" he responded, eyes snapping open to stare at me with incomprehension. "Can't I wear what I like in my own home?"

"You have a client. People generally feel more confident hiring someone who is wearing actual clothes."

"Bah," he said, with a dismissive gesture. "I can't be held responsible for the self-esteem of strangers."

"You're missing the point, Sherlock."

"No, I rather think you are," he argued, and ended the conversation by closing his eyes and ignoring me.

A few moments later, Mrs Hudson trilled up the stairs, "Sherlock, dear, you have another one!" followed by the stamp of furious feet on the stairs.

"Told you," muttered Sherlock.

"I never doubted it."

"Of course you did."

"Shut it, I did not."

I opened the door before the woman had a chance to knock, prepared to apologize for my flat-mate's state of undress, then to be cut by one of Sherlock's scathing insights. Instead, I found myself transfixed by the grief on the woman's face, and impulsively put my arm around her shoulders, to help her to the sofa.

"I'll bring up a nice pot of tea, all right?" Mrs Hudson called, with her usual impeccable sense of the appropriate.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," I said, gratefully. "And perhaps some biscuits."

"Not your housekeeper, dear!"

I got the woman settled. She was gasping for breath, crying even as she tried to speak. Sherlock had roused, by this point, and sat beside her, patting her hand as he made wordless, reassuring noises. He casually raised his other hand, subtly pointing out the Bluetooth tucked under her disheveled hair.

Of course, I understood immediately, if not completely. At least part of her strange behaviour on the street had been an argument with whoever was on the other end of the phone. The rest, Sherlock no doubt already knew. I would have to wait until either the woman was calm enough to explain herself, or Sherlock took it upon himself.

In the interim, Mrs Hudson arrived with a tea tray, adorned with a nice selection of edibles. The presence of neatly trimmed sandwiches indicated that our landlady hoped to entice Sherlock into eating something, as well. She neither knew, nor would care, that the man had eaten two and a half enormous Masala Dosas the night before, and had the remainder for breakfast. Besides, if this turned out to be an actual case, that might have been the last meal Sherlock would eat for days.

"You are a treasure, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock assured her, as she poured.

"Have a sandwich, Sherlock, it'll do you good," Mrs Hudson replied. I didn't attempt to hide my smile, knowing that Sherlock would see it, either way.

Mrs Hudson pressed tea and biscuits on our guest, and fluttered away.

"Do calm yourself, Mrs Holder," said Sherlock. "I cannot help you, if you cannot tell me what is the matter."

"Take your time," I tried to reassure her.

Sherlock glared at me. "Quo celerius, eo melius," he retorted, but quietly.

The woman, Mrs Holder, if Sherlock was correct, which he undoubtedly was, gradually brought herself under control. Distress sat uneasily on her; hers was a face accustomed to control, the facade of serenity amidst chaos. Combat medics had such faces, and I'd occasionally wondered if I wore it myself, when things went pear-shaped.

"I'm sorry. You must think me mad," she said, rather accurately, in my case.

"Not at all. I'm sure you have a perfectly sane reason for your abject failure to make an appointment." Sherlock gave her hand one final pat, and removed himself back to his armchair.

"Sherlock!" I began, prepared to give him quiet Hell, but Mrs Holder appeared reassured by the brusque comment and calmed further.

"I do. I am sorry, I know it's unforgivable, to just burst in this way, but I couldn't think of a way to explain over the phone, and e-mail... Well, call me old-fashioned, but it all seems so cold, so mechanical."

Sherlock's lips quirked. "Quite, yes." We exchanged a glance, for that was the precise reason Sherlock preferred e-mail inquiries. All that messy emotion, he'd discoursed with some frequency, tidily constrained by the requirements of grammar and punctuation, instead of spilling out onto the rug. Not that the rug was any better than it ought to be, suffering the hazards of Sherlock's experiments, no less than his inattention. Mrs Hudson and I both tried, so order and cleanliness were gradually encroaching upon the prevailing chaos of 221B, but the rug was an abstraction of chemical burns and tea stains that no amount of Hoovering could resolve.

"I don't even know how it came to this! A simple favor for a friend and suddenly I'm ruined. If it were just me, it might be bearable, but my entire household—my son, my husband's niece, even the housekeeper—we'll all be in gaol by the end of the week!" Our guest rummaged in her handbag for a tissue, and dabbed here and there around her face.

"So how does a wealthy widow, of excellent family and good station, come to seek out a consulting detective?" Sherlock prodded, gently. "Why not simply go to the police? No, no, ignore me, how stupid--that's exactly why you can't go to the police, of course."

"Of course," she breathed, no more awed than I. "You obviously know who I am."

"Transparent. What is less transparent is the reason for your visit, so if you would be so kind..."

Mrs Holder glanced at me, questioning. I held out my hand. "Dr John Watson, I am..." What was I?

"My trusted friend and colleague," announced Sherlock.

"Of course, Dr Watson, I know who you are. A pleasure to meet you. I am Mrs Alexandra Holder."

"And Lady Bedford. Mustn't forget the title." From Sherlock, who held all titles in disdain, and reserved some of his most biting commentary for England's hereditary aristocracy, the comment was so mild as to be shocking.

Lady Bedford frowned and shrugged. "The Manor has been gone for 150 years. I'm happy enough with my name, if you don't mind."

"On the contrary, I approve," said my friend.

Mrs Holder sighed. "If only everyone felt so. But I am grateful. The loss of the house was the making of my husband's family. Unlike many, Mr Holder's ancestors were practical people. They accumulated a tidy fortune, which has been preserved and improved upon, instead of sinking their money into mouldering estates, over-bred horses, and cards."

"Admirable, I'm sure," Sherlock muttered, growing impatient.

"What I am trying to say, is that time is money: your time, as well as mine. When the Colonel suggested I contact you, I came straight-off. I only hope I have sufficient funds for a retainer." Mrs Holder reached into her handbag for the second time. She produced a fat packet of notes, peeling off five, and holding them out. "I hope cash is acceptable. I will have three times that for you, if you can help me."

As Sherlock showed no inclination to do so, I reached for the money, nearly choking when I realized what I was holding. I had never seen a £1000 note before. My hand wasn't trembling, at all, I noticed, as if from far away.

"Cash is fine. It's fine." Sherlock glanced at me. "John, sit down before you fall over."

I sat. Mrs Holder ignored me, and proceeded to tell us her story.

"As you know, my husband was wealthy, and conservative. His fortune was hardly affected by the recessions, and he died leaving his family, including myself, very comfortable. Not all have been so lucky, and it was my husband's custom to provide quiet, private loans to family and close friends, in times of need. I have seen no need to alter that policy, provided it is not abused, and so have on occasion taken various treasures, which could not be trusted to a common pawnbroker, into my keeping, as a kind of collateral. I have never had any sort of problem, and rarely do I have to wait more than a week to be able to return such items.

"Yesterday, a dear friend of my husband, whom I have seen only rarely since the Duke's passing, called me, asking to visit. I was surprised, not only because we two were never close, but also because, well... he is not the sort of man that would normally pay that particular sort of visit."

"By your circumlocutions, Madame, I assume that he clearly intended to ask for a loan, when he called, and by 'visit,' he meant he would be bringing collateral." Sherlock sat up, interested. "Is this the common arrangement?"

"Yes," she replied. "It's sad, but you can always tell in the voice, when someone needs money, quickly. No matter how they try, there is always an air of desperation."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, softly, "you're quite right. One can always tell."

Mrs Holder hummed, a contemplative sound, and sipped at her tea. Refreshed, she continued with her tale, and quite detailed it was. The widow had accepted a chess set, in exchange for half a million pounds.

"A chess set!" I exclaimed. "What sort of chess set could possibly worth that much money?"

"Not a chess set," Mrs Holder corrected me. "The Beryl Chess Set."

"And worth a good deal more than 500,000 quid," Sherlock mused, standing. He stalked to one of the bookcases, scanning the shelves until he found the volume he sought. Flipping rapidly through the pages, he answered a question I hadn't dared to ask, an omission so glaring that even I had noticed. "Which tells me the identity of your, er, friend."

"Not me!" I protested.

"Yes, but you don't need to know." Sherlock dismissed both my curiousity and concern in the same off-hand phrase. "In fact, it's far better that you don't."

Sherlock thrust the open book at me. Taking it from him, I first scanned the pages, then read closely, whistling in surprise. "That's. That's something."

"Indeed. Better than five million pounds of rare, precious something; the only something like it in the world, and a closely guarded family heirloom. Not quite the Crown Jewels, but not far from it, either."

Sherlock paced, hands behind his back, and face tipped toward the ceiling. "Thirty-two exquisitely carved and matched pieces of red and green [beryllium](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beryllium) [aluminium](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aluminium) [cyclosilicate](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silicate_minerals#Cyclosilicates). Commonly known as emerald. The red is so rare that a single carat can cost £5000. The value of the stone itself is probably close to £4 million. The provenance, the artistry... the Beryl Chess Set might just be priceless."

From the book, I added, "it has only been displayed a half-dozen times, each time anonymously. It's believed to reside in England—well, that we know for sure, now, don't we? Rumored to have been created by the House of Faberge, just before the Bolshevik Revolution, perhaps as a plaything for the young Romanovs... fascinating. Really, very interesting. And you want us to find it?"

"Not all of it. I don't know if this makes it better or worse, but all that is missing is three red pawns." Mrs Holder sighed, and stared at her hands. She was too well-bred to shred the tissue she still clutched, but the thought was on her face: the need to destroy a thing, to take any action, however meaningless.

"The chess set is to be redeemed Thursday," she began.

Sherlock gave me a look. "Today is Tuesday," I told him.

"Ah." He nodded thanks at me, and looked back to Mrs Holder, who appeared nonplussed for the first time during the interview. "Continue."

"Well, that's all, really. I locked the case in my bedside table. I told no one what I had received or where it was, went to bed at around 10 p.m. When I awoke, the cabinet was open and three red pawns were missing."

"What of the other members of your household? You mentioned a son, a niece, a maid; any others? Gardener, cook, assistant, perhaps?"

"No, just the four of us. We live quite simply, on a quiet street in Streatham. My husband's family built the row when the Manor was destroyed. At one time the whole block was inhabited by family, but over the years most of it has been let. Now, it's just us, and some offices and shops," she explained. "It's a lovely area, though there've been troubles over the past few years."

"You don't have a safe?" Sherlock asked. "Why would you put the case in your bedside cabinet, and not a safe."

"It didn't fit," the widow replied, bluntly. "I keep cash and jewelry in the safe, but the chess set was too large. And, frankly, after so many years without incident, perhaps I just never really considered the danger. I could have called my bank to send a car, and put it in the vault, but that seemed like unnecessary fuss."

"And now?" Sherlock inquired, limpidly.

"I will be far more careful, in future," she promised, with admirable fervour.

"No doubt. I believe the Americans have a saying about horses and barn doors, which certainly applies in this case." He shrugged it off, announcing, "I must view the scene. Come, John!"

Sherlock whirled toward the door, prepared to immediately begin the hunt. I didn't move.

"John?" he said, hesitating when I didn't spring after him. I turned a page.

"Trousers, Sherlock. Actual clothes won't kill you."

"Fine," sulked the self-proclaimed, world's greatest detective, and stomped off to his room.

Despite his protestations, and his general unconcern with his immediate living environment, in matters of personal grooming, Sherlock was as fastidious as a cat. I was not surprised, therefore, to see him flounce into the lav a moment later, followed by the sounds of Mrs Hudson's pipes.

"More tea?" I offered our guest. "He'll be a bit."

Tea was accepted, and we both had time to enjoy more of Mrs Hudson's exceptional baking, while Sherlock made himself picturesque. Mrs Holder essayed a few attempts at polite conversation, but was repeatedly interrupted by phone calls, some of them quite heated, though none so much as the call that had originally caused me to think her unbalanced. To pass the time, I leafed through the tome that Sherlock had thrust at me.

It wasn't a book, properly speaking, but rather an exhibition catalog from the Genoa Expo. I had never heard of it, not that I would have been interested in such a thing, back in '92. It seemed odd that a Russian chess set would be included in an event devoted to "[Christopher Columbus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Columbus), The Ship and the Sea" until I read that the gemstones were almost definitely sourced in the Americas. Upon that slender thread hung the entire relevance of a Tsarist artifact, displayed in Italy, courtesy of anonymous English aristocracy. The very obscurity of the exhibition was most likely a nod in its favor as a venue to show off the set, considering the reticence of the owners.

I was examining photographs of extremely uncomfortable-looking Pre-Columbian gold codpieces when Sherlock completed his toilette, and swanned back into the parlor. His coat flared dramatically, and his pale skin still held a hectic flush from the heat of his bath. His eyes sparkled below damply curling hair, and even I admired his presentation. Sherlock had a seductive androgyny that pulled both men and women, often despite their stated preference. 

“Satisfied?” Sherlock demanded. I rose in response, and the three of us clattered down the stairs. 

Sherlock’s horror of sharing a cab with anyone but me gave us time to compare notes on the way. As we followed Mrs Holder through the streets of London, he once again proved his powers of observation, describing the widow’s loneliness, her disappointing son, and the drinking habits of the housekeeper. “Fantastic!” I breathed, genuinely impressed; but I must admit, I also enjoyed his slightly surprised expression upon receiving a compliment, the slanting sideways glance that was shyly pleased at the praise, but wary of the sarcasm that so often accompanied such words from others. I was never less than absolutely sincere, which contributed in large part, I think, to our friendship.

We had spent the morning in interview with Mrs Holder, so it was just past midday when we arrived at the family home in Streathem. The house was part of a fine Victorian block, and obviously the only one still intact, not subdivided into flats. The other half of the block, backed up to the residential row, contained the promised shops, cafes, and offices. The Holder residence occupied a prime corner position. The large windows would catch what spare winter sun London might provide, while lacy, slender trees shaded the home from the worst of the summer doldrums.

As soon as our cab pulled up to the kerb, Sherlock sprang out, leaving me to pay the fare. By the time I was finished, my flatmate had disappeared, as was his habit. 

“Did you see where he got to?” I asked Mrs Holder, hopefully.

She nodded, striding off briskly. “There’s an access-way, not much more than a path, really. It used to go to a carriage house, but that was before the War. Lucy, the housekeeper, has a small garden where it used to stand.”

As we came round the back, I spied Sherlock, minutely examining the tidy yard with his little plastic magnifier. He was hunched nearly in half, his coat awkwardly draped over his left arm, as if he could individually examine each blade, leaf, or speck. Perhaps he could; I would be more useful examining the other members of the household.

The garden door opened into a small lumber room, then onto the kitchen, in a fashion typical to homes of the era. Mrs Holder escorted me further into the house, offering a tour, but I declined, preferring to settle in the former study of the former Mr Arthur Holder to begin the interviews.

The widow had assured us that everyone who had been in the house the previous day and night would make themselves available, and so they did. I asked every question I could think of, and quite a few that Sherlock had asked on previous occasions. Frequently, such questions seemed to make no sense, either in their original or re-purposed context, but I nonetheless was careful to write down the answers exactly as tendered. 

The black notebook that I used for these interviews was still mostly empty. I had purchased it as a journal, thinking it might be easier to keep a diary, than a blog, but neither of my previous professions had encouraged a literary turn, and so I’d never picked up the habit. On this day, though, my custom of carrying it with me proved useful, and would prove a breakthrough. Not in the case, of course, but in the transition of John Watson from a doctor and soldier, into a writer and investigator. This shift would prove to be the most momentous, pivotal, and important of my life, but as it was happening, I didn’t even notice.

The interviews themselves told me nothing that we hadn't heard before. Mrs Holder had been thorough in her briefing, and the three main suspects all declared their innocence, while pointing fingers at others, outside the family.

The niece, Mary, declared that it must have been thieves in the night; the maid, Lucy, suspected young Arthur's drinking companion; while Arthur was certain that Lucy's boyfriend was the culprit. Mrs Holder suspected her own son, which we knew; the boy had been spending a bit too much time with his friend George in questionable pursuits, and his allowance was no longer sufficient to his needs. Only the night before the theft, he'd had a tiff with Mrs Holder over increasing his allowance. Her terms had been stricter than he was willing to abide, and the two had parted on bad terms.

John was inclined to agree with a mother, in this case, but Sherlock only scoffed. "The boy is obviously innocent, but he is hiding something: his infatuation with Miss Mary, and his suspicion that she might have stolen the pawns."

"Why would he think that?" I asked. Arthur had seemed fond of the girl, perhaps a little defensive on her behalf, but certainly not besotted. Or suspicious, although perhaps his declarations of her inevitable innocence were a case of protesting too much. 

"That is what I need to find out. People often know things without knowing how they know. They see, but do not observe, and call the result 'instinct' or 'nerves.'" He sighed. "It's incredibly frustrating."

"I'm sure," I replied, dryly.

"Oh, don't be like that, John. You understand me perfectly well." The truth was that I did understand him, and always have. Sherlock was amazing, impossible, and insufferable, but he has never been a mystery to me. 

"What about the others? The maid, Lucy, and Mary?" I asked. "Or the boyfriend, or young George, what's-his-name..."

I flipped through my notebook, looking for the last name. "Ah, here it is, Burnwell. An American university student, currently taking a year to see the world. Hm, I didn't know students still did that."

Sherlock hummed, thoughtfully. "I'm not sure they do. In any case, both of them will have to be investigated. The maid, of course, will have to be considered closely."

"You're not going to tell me the butler did it, are you?" I was shocked. Sherlock would never take a case that banal. 

He shot me an impatient glance. "Of course not, John. But servants know everything! And she clearly thinks that George is involved, even if she is wrong about him sneaking into the house after dropping off Arthur."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock was already climbing the stairs to Mrs Holder's bedroom. He gestured at the rugs. I was just behind him, but I couldn't see what he was pointing to. "Lucy Hoovers every other morning. The last time she did so was yesterday. In that time, only members of the household and ourselves have walked on these carpets. So, obviously, it must be an inside job."

"That eliminates George, then," I said.

"In one sense. He didn't physically commit the crime, but the maid thinks he did. She knows without knowing how she knows."

I was prevented from replying by Mrs Holder meeting us at her bedroom door.

"I've tried not to move anything, but it's so hard to know." She dithered a bit, then handed Sherlock the key to the bedside table.

"You told no one, you said, not a soul. Why not?" Sherlock asked her.

Mrs Holder lifted her chin. "Discretion is the only coin I have, Mr Holmes. If what I do got around, I would no longer be trusted. And something like this... well, even a rumor could be traced. I rarely get such interesting items; it's usually jewelry, old coins. Nothing... romantic, nothing truly unique, do you see?"

"Yes, I do," Sherlock said. He shot a quick glance at me, then looked away. 

I think we both understood, especially as Sherlock removed the case and opened it. Even the case was gorgeous, a shining example of artistry, beautifully inlaid and jointed. The gems inside gleamed with cold fire, shining against the dark, lush velvet lining.

I couldn't restrain a gasp. I don't play chess, but I was arrested by exquisite carvings. The three missing pawns gaped like a wound. Would it even be possible to replace them? Could the color and clarity of the remaining pieces be matched, the simple lines replicated?

"Tragic," Sherlock breathed, as grieved as I had ever heard him. He whispered, incongruously, "let no man rend asunder," before whirling to his feet. 

"I must examine the room," he declared, and whipped out his glass. Sherlock proceeded to ignore us for the better part of an hour while he apparently examined every fiber and dust mote. I refused tea several times, as Mrs Holder seemed to forget every rebuff within moments. I wasn't sure that she was even aware that she was offering. 

"There's nothing left to learn, here," Sherlock finally declared. He gave Mrs Holder a direct look and asked, "I can retrieve your missing pieces, but I must have your promise to pay whatever expenses I incur and to accept the return with no questions."

Mrs Holder looked like she might object, but Sherlock lifted his hand. "No questions, those are my terms!"

She grit her teeth. "May I at least ask why?"

He regarded her seriously. "Because you may not like the answer, perhaps. Or perhaps, the answers will not be mine to give. You must trust that what I choose to tell you is all that you need to know."

"When would you return the pieces, then? Do you already know what happened?" As if the answers to those questions would determine her acceptance.

"Tomorrow morning, I think. I don't know yet, but I will soon. Come to the flat after lunch, tomorrow. I will text you if the cost of the pieces is more than my initial retainer. Otherwise, bring only the agreed upon fee."

"Very well, Mr Holmes. I am desperate enough to agree." She didn't look happy about it, and for the first time I saw that this woman was quite possibly a formidable business woman. Mrs Holder had weighed her options and come to a decision quickly. She had, after all, come to see Sherlock Holmes on the strength of a personal referral by someone who had himself required speed and discretion, while shelling out great pots of money.

We returned to 221B in silence. Sherlock was cogitating deeply, while I was starting to feel the effects of a busy day after drinking rather more than I'm used to. 

Once upstairs, I asked, "Dinner?"

Sherlock waved a disdainful hand and shed his coat, moving immediately to his laptop. He seated himself at the desk, obviously already considering lines of research. I hung up both of our outerwear, and went into the kitchen to scrounge for something to eat. It wasn't really worth cooking, just for myself, so I heated a tin of soup and ate it with toast in front of the telly.

My friend tapped and frowned and hummed for hours, as he searched the internet. I was convincing myself that I wasn't too tired to stay up—unsuccessfully--when he finally shut down, and looked up at me. 

"I need to go out for a few hours." He scowled at me. "You should get some sleep."

"No," I said, then yawned, hugely. "Really, I'm fine. I can come with you."

"Nonsense. I don't need you for this, and we'll both be happier if you're not falling asleep and drooling on me while I'm staking out flats."

I tried not to be hurt at his words, but my expression must have given my feelings away, for Sherlock softened, as much as he ever does. "It's not dangerous, John. Please, go to bed."

"God forbid I should be bored at not being shot at," I grumbled, but my heart wasn't really in it. I truly was exhausted, and when it came to sitting around watching, waiting for something to happen, Sherlock was far more patient that I was. 

After a few more feeble protestations, I lurched into the bathroom to prepare for bed. By the time I came out, Sherlock was gone, his coat missing. He'd turned off the telly and all but one lamp, a practical way of communicating 'good night and sleep well,' without the messy sentimentality that he abhorred. Sherlock's care was always practical.

I slept well, that night, as I mostly had done since moving in with Sherlock. Even when he was out, his presence filled the flat, like the aroma of his expensive products. Sherlock preferred to use items that were all the same mild scent, so that competing odors would not distract his senses. I had begun to associate the subtle hint of sandalwood and lavender with Sherlock. I'd never noticed it on anyone else, and the packaging suggested that it was as bespoke as his clothes.

*

In the morning, the flat was empty, although a trail of disarray suggested that Sherlock had been back, at least once, while I slept. Sherlock's comings and goings rarely disturbed me, unless he were gone for too long without at least a text. 

The thought caused me to check my phone, and sure enough, there were several terse messages. "Dull," read the first, a few hours after I'd gone to bed. "Don't wake up," ordered the next, as if he could text my sleeping awareness, the nutter. Finally, "Make coffee," just a few moments ago.

Sherlock knew me well enough that he knew what time I would wake, even if I don't have work. As I often did, I played the game where pretended that I might not follow his orders, but his imperiousness amused me more than it ought, so as usual I did as instructed.

The coffee had just finished brewing when Sherlock bounded into the flat, flushed and grinning with victory. He waved a cloth-wrapped bundle in the air, clenched in his fist.

"You found them, then," I said mildly, pouring us each a cup of coffee. 

Sherlock's face fell, briefly, before he realized that I was tweaking him, then his grin returned, dialed-up further, if possible. "I didn't find them, John, I hunted them down, and purchased them from the guilty party. He didn't even know what they were worth," Sherlock crowed, pleased with himself.

He lay the bundle on the table and reverently folded back the cloth. Inside, were the three missing red pawns, like flames against the white linen. I set both cups down well away from Sherlock's prize, as if a bit of coffee could possibly harm the precious minerals. Each was smaller than my thumb, but together they equaled a year's pension. If I were a greedy man, I might have been tempted by them, myself. As it was, I could only admire their rare beauty.

"The fool couldn't even sell them, he had no idea what he'd got himself into." Sherlock shed his coat and dropped into a chair. I pushed his cup over, and sat across from him, the beryl chess pieces lying between us.

"So who was it, then?" I asked, prodding him.

"It's obvious, John! I told you already." He looked disappointed in me, as if I'd hurt him deep in his heart. The prat.

I thought it over. "George, then, and... Mary? Because, people know things without knowing how they know, that's what you said."

"Very good, John. What else?" he asked.

"Um. No marks on the carpets that didn't belong there, so it had to be an inside job. That leaves Mary, but why would she do it? And why give them to George Burnwell?"

"Love," Sherlock sneered, lip curling. "She fell in love with her cousin's worthless friend, and told him about the set."

"But how would she even know about it? Mrs Holder didn't tell anyone, she said."

"And I'm sure she didn't. But a household that small, full of people she trusts... she probably didn't even notice quiet, sweet Mary lurking in the doorway, or at the end of the hall. She thought she was alone, therefore, in her mind, she was alone." Sherlock sighed with frustration. "People are so very dense!"

"Well, if we weren't, you wouldn't have a job, so be grateful." Sherlock just grunted at me. "So when would she have been able to tell to tell George?"

"When he brought home Arthur, after their pub crawl. That was their usual arrangement, an hour of snogging and desperate declarations of love after he dropped off the rich friend he'd been mooching off of. I'm sure that at first he cultivated her affections thinking that she must be an heiress. Finding her to be a penniless cousin, he nonetheless continued the charade, until this opportunity fell into his lap. George convinced Mary to produce a sample, just to show him, of course, or she would have closed the cupboard, but he pretends to hear someone coming and runs off with the pieces in his pocket. She's too nervous to cover her tracks, and the rest you know."

I was awed. "You deduced all of this?"

My friend cleared his throat. "Well, most of it. The rest I got from George, once I'd tracked him down, and, er, persuaded him to sell me the pawns."

"What was he going to do with them? And how was he planning to make it square with Mary?"

Sherlock cast me a jaundiced glance. "I doubt either Mary or Arthur would have ever seen George Burnwell, again, whether he managed to sell the gems or not. They certainly won't, now."

"Oh?" I asked, curiously.

"Mr Burnwell has been strongly encouraged to return to the States, before he finds himself at the tender mercy of Interpol."

"Interpol? That's a bit much for a university student, isn't it?"

"If he were a student, yes; however, he's an international con-artist, wanted for fraud in several countries, and believed to be in league with counterfeiters."

"Dear Lord," I exclaimed. "What are you going to tell Mrs Holder? She dotes on Mary."

"I'm going to tell her that the artifacts are found, and the rest is a matter for a higher authority than my own." Sherlock looked both cross and beatific which told me just one thing.

"You informed Mycroft, didn't you? George Burnwell is going to be greeted by law enforcement no matter where he goes next." I smirked, and rose to pour out more coffee.

"I'm afraid I was forced to appeal to a higher power, yes, as much as I despise the necessity." He sighed, and rose, sweeping the chess pieces off of the table. "Mrs Holder will be here at one. Please knock me up for lunch, if you would."

"Not your housekeeper," I mimicked, the joke well-worn between us.

"No," he replied, with a quiet smile. "But a good friend."

  
  


  
  


*

**Author's Note:**

> The Beryl Chess Set, its history and provenance, are entirely fictional. The Genoa exhibition, and miscellaneous other details, are not fiction. Bonus points if you can identify the title and author of John's book, the pub, or other obscurities.


End file.
